


In Defence of Mistletoe

by Gampyre



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Dancing, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Inappropriate Erections, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Mistletoe, Public sexual touching, Semi-Public Sex, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:13:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28372950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gampyre/pseuds/Gampyre
Summary: Simon enlists Baz to be his fake date and stave off the affections of his unwanted admirer at work... but Baz may be plotting to turn the evening into something real.Featuring a Simon and Baz who are best friends, a very drunk Gareth with a bejeweled belt buckle, and a conveniently placed sprig of mistletoe.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 43
Kudos: 250
Collections: Winter Holiday Collection 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LesOublies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LesOublies/gifts).



> Thank you so much to Larn for the beta! 💖
> 
> LesOublies, I hope you enjoy this! It's just Simon and Baz, figuring things out, with an extra helping of holiday cheer 💖

SIMON

My favourite hiding spot is occupied today. _Damn it._ I squeeze my way in anyway, because this is a whole fucking emergency.

“Hey!” Trixie hisses, when I shove at her to budge up and make room for both of us. “Watch your elbows!”

“ _Shhhh!_ He’ll hear you!”

Footsteps echo down the corridor, and I instinctively take a step backward. I'm trying to press myself farther into the corner behind the water cooler when I hear his voice—it sends a trickle of revulsion and panic down my spine.

“Ouch!” Trixie shoves back at me. “You’re stepping on my foot!”

“Sorry!” I whisper, moving my own foot off her toes. “But _shhh!_ ” The footsteps stop, and I hear Gareth saying hi to Rhys a few doors down the corridor. “What are you doing here anyway?” I ask Trixie. 

She rolls her eyes. “Hiding, duh. What else? Who are _you_ hiding from?”

“Gareth, obviously.”

“Ah,” Trixie’s eyes light up with understanding, and she gives my arm a pitying sort of pat. “Still following you around then? Would’ve thought he’d’ve given up by—” I clamp my hand over her mouth as the footsteps start up again.

“Simon?” Gareth’s voice grates against my eardrums. I’d rather listen to Elspeth scrape her acrylic fingernails across a chalkboard. “Simon?” The steps pause outside my office door. Through the blue plastic of the water jug, I see the wavering outline of my nemesis peeking through my open doorway. He turns around and I duck, pulling Trixie down with me.

Okay, so _nemesis_ might be a bit strong. Gareth isn’t evil or anything. He's not my enemy. He’s merely the bane of my pitiful existence, the reason I dread getting up in the mornings, the source of each and every misfortune I’ve ever faced in this godforsaken office building.

He's also my coworker, and has had an enormous crush on me since last year. I didn't mind the attention at first, but after turning someone down at least a dozen times, you'd think a bloke could take a hint!

I swear, the man is worse than Baz ever was, back at boarding school. At least Baz teased me in an affectionate way. And I stalked him more than he stalked me. More importantly, I like Baz. He turned out to be my best friend, once we grew out of all that teen rivalry business. I can’t fathom ever being friends with Gareth, though. He’s not cool or funny or smart or thoughtful like Baz, unless you call memorizing my pissing schedule in order to accost me outside the loo _thoughtful_. 

“Did he ask you to the holiday party?” Trixie whispers, once Gareth has retreated out of earshot and I’ve removed my hand from Trixie’s mouth.

“Not yet. Not for lack of trying, though. I’ve been avoiding him all week. If I can just make it to next Friday without being in the same room as him . . .” 

Trixie snorts. “Good luck with that.”

I frown at her. “What do you mean?”

She shrugs, and smirks a little. “Mandatory company-wide training, remember? Corporate reps are coming and everything. Everyone’s going to be there. Can’t avoid him then!”

“When is that again? I think I’m going to be sick that day. I’m definitely coming down with something.” I give a feeble, unconvincing cough, and a dry sniff for good measure.

“It’s in an hour.” Trixie looks far too smug about it, smirking at me with an underserved amount of amusement at my predicament. “And if you try to go home early, I’m going to tell Possibelf that it was you who shredded the wrong contracts last week.”

I gasp in horror. “You wouldn’t.”

She grins, and it’s all teeth. “I would. You know I would.”

I make a mental note to ‘forget’ to save her a pastry next time she’s running late to our team meeting. She doesn’t deserve it. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“Because you’re being a coward and a baby,” she says lightly. “You have to turn him down firmly and for good. You can’t hide behind the water cooler forever.”

“ _You’re_ hiding behind the water cooler," I say, but I stand up and scoot out from behind it anyway. "Which, about that, you never said why. Who are you hiding from?”

She snorts and stands up too, following me into the hallway. “Possibelf, of course.”

“Hypocrite,” I huff.

“Possibelf isn’t trying to ask me out, though,” she says, rolling her eyes. “It’s completely different. She wants me to take over the holiday party planning since Pippa’s on leave.”

“Already? I thought Philippa was going to be here for another three weeks!”

Trixie shakes her head. “Baby’s coming early, apparently.”

“Maybe Gareth should take over the party planning. It would keep him occupied, at least.”

That startles a laugh out of Trixie. “That could be even worse for you. Knowing him, he’d rig every single activity to end in snogging, and blanket the ceiling in mistletoe or something.”

“Ugh.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I’m going to slip into my office and barricade the door before Gareth decides to have another snoop. Thanks ever so much, Trixie.”

“Thanks for what, exactly?”

“It’s so comforting to know that I won’t be the only one getting ambushed at this company-wide meeting later today. See ya!”

I leave a scowling Trixie by the water cooler and run to my office. With the door safely shut behind me, I channel my inner teenage Baz, and I plot.

* * *

My plot has utterly failed.

Well, I suppose I _did_ get Gareth to accept that I wasn’t going to be attending the holiday party as his date. Unfortunately, now everyone thinks that I already have a date. 

Finding someone to take to the party won’t be that difficult. I’ll bring Baz, of course. No one else knows me as well as he does, and it won’t be the first time we’ve been each other’s plus-one to an event. Plus, he’s fit and intimidating as hell. One dark look from him, and even Gareth would back off. 

No, getting Baz to play my date will be easy. The challenge is going to be getting him to agree to the extent of the charade. See, I didn’t _just_ tell Gareth I had a date. I told him quite a bit more than that, and I’m not sure Baz will be too pleased about what exactly I’ve roped him into.

Baz lives next door to me and Penny, so I head straight to his flat after work, once I’ve showered and changed. He doesn’t answer when I knock, but I let myself in and check the fridge for any good leftovers. He hates to cook, and he’s always ordering takeaway, but he never eats it all. He’ll order half a dozen different things, eat a bit of each, and dump the rest in his fridge. And he never eats the leftovers either. If I don’t eat them, they just sit there until they spoil, and I hate to see good food wasted. We’ve developed a whole system, and it works out well for both of us. (I have a sneaking suspicion he does it on purpose, for me, but he won't admit it.)

Today he’s got pad thai and fried rice from that Thai place around the corner he likes, plus pasta carbonara from when we hung out with his friends Dev and Niall earlier this week. I dump the pasta in a bowl and throw it in the microwave to heat up while I stick some bread in the toaster. 

I hear Baz’s keys in the lock just as I’m sitting down on the sofa to eat. “Hey,” I say when he walks in, my mouth full of toast. 

Baz frowns. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, Snow.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I wave away his complaint and take another bite. “How was work?”

He sighs, toeing his shoes off and dropping his briefcase on the little table by the door. “Wonderful.” 

“That bad, huh?”

“I had six meetings before lunchtime. Five of which should have been emails.” He makes his way to the sitting room and flops onto the sofa next to me, pinching the bridge of his nose. “If I never have to hear the words ‘profit maximization’ again, it will be too soon.”

“You literally work in finance.”

“Still.” He pulls out his phone and starts tapping away, and I switch on the telly, turning it to some American comedy that Penny likes, but I can never remember the name of. 

“What’re you ordering?”

“Greek,” he says. “Do you prefer lamb or chicken?”

“In what, a wrap?”

“Yeah. Or a pita.”

“Um,” I say. “I’m not a big fan of lamb. Anything else, I’ll eat.”

Because it's Baz, he orders one of every possible combination of wraps and pitas, and then begs me to get the door when the food arrives. (Which I do, because I know half of it will end up as my lunch or dinner, so I don't mind.) 

By the time I’ve laid all the food out on the coffee table, Baz has sat up and opened his eyes, looking marginally less grumpy. He digs in, and I finish my pasta. We sit in an easy, comfortable silence, the low sounds of the telly playing in the background.

“So,” I venture, once he’s eaten half a wrap and a few bites of salad, and the irritated crease on his forehead has all but disappeared, “I need to ask a favour.”

He raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t look up from his food. “What sort of favour?”

“Well. Remember how I told you about Gareth?”

“The one who’s been harassing you all year? The one with that blasted belt buckle and the inappropriately-timed thrusting?” Baz looks mildly irritated again, his upper lip curling lightly into a sneer.

“He’s not _harassing_ me exactly, he’s just very… persistent in his flirting.”

“It’s harassment, Snow. You could just report him to HR, you know.”

I shrug. “I dunno. I mean, he’s annoying, but… I dunno. I don’t really want to report him.” Truth is, my job is pretty damn boring, and complaining to Trixie about Gareth and hiding from him is often the most interesting part of my day. 

Baz purses his lips. “Suit yourself. What has he done this time?” 

I shrug. “He asked me to go to the company holiday party with him. As his date.”

“Oh?” Baz is full-on frowning now, glaring at his salad like it’s personally offended him. “And?”

“And I told him no, obviously. But . . .”

“But what? Spit it out, Snow.”

“I, er, might’ve told him I already have a date.”

“From the context, I’m going to guess that isn’t true.”

“Right. Well, not yet, anyway.”

Baz sets his fork down and turns to face me. At least he looks mildly amused now, rather than irritated. “And you want me to pretend to be your date.”

"Er, yes," I say. Baz is far too perceptive for his own good . . . and now he looks very smug. The sparkle in his eye tells me he’s likely plotting some mischief. (Hopefully, it’s at Gareth’s expense, not mine.) 

“Alright, then. I’ll go.”

I suppress a sigh of relief. “I haven’t even told you when it is. What if you’re busy?”

He waves a hand dismissively. “If I have plans, and those plans happen to conflict with the party, I’ll reschedule them. What’s the dress code?”

“Um, I’m not sure?”

Baz shakes his head in fond exasperation, then picks up the baklava. He offers a piece to me and I take it. “Find out.”

“Alright, I’ll ask Trixie tomorrow.”

“When is it?”

“Next Friday at seven.”

“Splendid. Pick me up at seven-fifteen. It’s always better to be fashionably late than uncomfortably early. Even—no, _especially_ —to a lame office party.”

I nod. And then I take a deep breath. Now for the rest of it. I shove my hands under my thighs to stop myself from wringing them nervously together.

“Uh, Baz? There’s more.”

“Hmm? What’s that?”

“I may have… exaggerated the nature of our relationship.”

A frown reappears on Baz’s face, his mouth tensing slightly around the corners. “Obviously, seeing as this isn’t a real date.” 

I might be imagining it, but he almost sounds disappointed. Does he want me to ask him on a real date? I push that thought away, along with the feelings accompanying it—we can deal with _that_ once the Gareth problem is solved.

“No, I mean . . . I kind of told Gareth that you were my boyfriend.”

Baz purses his lips and hums thoughtfully. “Alright . . . I suppose we can work with that.”

“My very serious boyfriend. Who I’ve been dating since uni . . .”

“We know each other well enough to pull that off.”

I take a deep breath. “. . . and who I’m pretty sure is planning to propose to me sometime very soon. Like, at-Christmas-or-New-Year’s soon.”

Baz’s eyes go wide, and he shakes his head once incredulously. “You told him we were engaged? Why would you do that?”

“ _Nearly_ engaged,” I point out. “And I dunno, I panicked, alright? I told him I had a boyfriend and he didn’t tone down the flirting at all. He kept winking at me and saying things like ‘let me know when you’re single again,’ so I said I didn’t plan to ever be single again, and he said 'the game’s not over until there’s a ring on your finger,' and then _I_ said ‘there’s as good as a ring on my finger,’ and then _he_ said talking about getting married didn’t count as anything more than dating, unless one of us had already bought a ring and made plans to propose, so _I_ said my boyfriend _had_ bought one and, well, here we are.”

Baz rolls his eyes, and he doesn’t have to say it, but I know he’s thinking it: _You’re an idiot, Snow._

“That’s all well and good,” he says, “but you’re either going to have to keep making up stories about an engagement, our wedding and why you won’t invite anyone to the reception, _or_ you’re going to have to fake a broken engagement and act tragically depressed for several weeks, at which point Gareth will no doubt start hitting on you again.” He shakes his head again and presses the tips of his fingers to his forehead. “You should have just left it at ‘serious boyfriend,’ which invites fewer questions. People hear the words ‘proposal’ and ‘engagement’ and ‘marriage’ and go absolutely batshit. They’ll ask for every last gory detail.”

I wince. He’s right. But where my coworkers are concerned, I don’t have a single fuck left to give. “Yeah, well, even if it took _actually_ marrying you to get Gareth off my back, I’d do it.”

Baz stands up suddenly and clears his throat, gathering up the takeaway containers. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

I follow him into the kitchen. “Would it be so bad, though?”

“What?”

“Oh, you know. Us getting married. Hypothetically, I mean. Penny says we already act like an old married couple.”

Baz opens the fridge and ducks behind the door as he puts the food away, but I see a spot of pink on his cheeks before he hides it. “Are you saying you _want_ to marry me?” He’s teasing, I know he is, but I can’t help the flush rising to my own face.

“No, I just meant. You know. We spend all our time together anyway. Having meals together and stuff. You helped me and Penny clean the bathroom last week. And I did your laundry with mine the week before that. We share leftovers. We fight over dishes all the time. I mean, getting married would just be all those same things, except there’d also be . . . Um, you know.” I scratch at the back of my neck. “The, uh, physical stuff.”

I feel my face heat, and I envy Baz’s position behind the fridge door, where all that cool air is. He coughs and straightens up, emerging from behind the fridge. He’s blushing too, though it at least looks good on him. (I’m sure I’ve the complexion of a splotchy tomato, myself.)

“You mean sex,” he says, characteristically blunt, leveling a gaze at me that elevates my cheeks to second-degree-burn territory.

“Um.” My voice comes out strangled, and I cough a little, trying to cover up how off-kilter it makes me, hearing the word _sex_ come out of Baz’s mouth while he’s blushing and flustered and looking at me like _that_.

“You’re saying we have all the pieces of a relationship, just without the sex,” he clarifies.

Why couldn’t we live in California, where there’s all those earthquakes? I could use a good earthquake right about now—I’d very much like the floor to open up and swallow me whole.

“Er, yes? I suppose.”

Baz’s face goes a bit pinker, though his composure doesn’t falter. He’s good at controlling his facial expressions, if not his blood flow. I don’t even want to know what expressions I’m making right now. (Embarrassing ones, I’m sure.) He continues, “And you’re saying you don’t think marrying me would be that bad.”

“I mean . . . No . . . ? What’s your point?”

“ _So,_ ” he emphasizes that syllable by tilting his head to the side and taking a step closer, “the logical conclusion there is that you don’t think having sex with me would be that bad.” He’s full-on smirking now. He’s still blushing, although he’s thoroughly enjoying how embarrassed I am. 

Fucking hell. It’s just _sex_. We’ve talked about sex before. I’ve had sex plenty of times. And I’ve heard him having sex with his dates through the wall far, _far_ too many times (whoever built the wall between our flats did a shit job of soundproofing). It’s just . . . I’ve never talked about having sex with Baz, _with Baz_. This is a whole new ballgame.

“What do you want me to say to that? There’s no good answer.” If I tell him I think sex with him _would_ be that bad, well, first of all that’s a big fat lie, and besides, he’d probably be offended. From the noises I’ve heard, I’d not hesitate to bet on Baz being very good in bed. But I can’t just _tell_ him that.

He grins wider and laughs, and the mood shifts into more familiar territory. “You could say yes.”

“Yes to what?” I tease back. “To marrying you? Or to sleeping with you?”

He winks at me. “Anything you want, love. We can do whatever we like. We’re as good as engaged now, aren’t we?”

“Oh, shut up.”


	2. Chapter 2

The evening of the party rolls around and I find myself far more nervous than I’d like to be. Gareth, for his part, has pretty much left me alone the past week and a half. Trixie, though, has been a humanoid ball of stress. I think some of her anxiety has rubbed off on me, because even though I’ve been to a dozen company parties, and on twice as many friend-dates with Baz, my stomach has been in knots since lunch. By the time seven-fifteen rolls around and I knock on Baz’s door to pick him up, I’m just about hyperventilating.

When Baz opens the door, though, I suddenly have the opposite problem—I find I can’t breathe at all.

“Baz,” I say, and then my brain can’t form any more words. “Baz.”

He smirks, the corner of his mouth turning up in a small, self-assured smile that completes the picture of perfection leaning against the doorframe in front of me. “Good evening, Snow. You look good.” He surveys my outfit, giving me an approving nod. “That color is lovely on you.”

I glance down at my plain grey suit and tug at the hem of my jacket. “Er, thanks,” I stammer. Baz’s suit is a deep navy blue, with razor-thin stripes in silver thread that shimmer each time he moves. “You too.”

Baz holds out a hand to me and I take it. His fingers are cool and dry, and I hope he doesn’t notice the cold sweat collecting on my own palms. “Ready?” he asks.

I nod. “Let’s go.”

The ride is short, and before I can second-guess anything, we’re walking hand-in-hand into the venue. Trixie accosts us near the entrance with a couple of blank nametags, a marker, and a handful of drink tickets.

“Here,” she says, shoving the nametags at Baz and the tickets at me. “We’re only supposed to give two per person, but there are a bunch of people who don’t drink, and I figured, given the state Gareth is in, you could use the extra alcohol.”

“Thanks,” I tell her. “What do you mean, the state Gareth is in?”

Trixie grimaces. “He showed up drunk. No, plastered. Completely pissed. I know he’s eased up a bit since you told him you were engaged—hello, Simon’s fake fiancé, by the way—”

"Shh! Not so loud!" I interject.

“I’m Baz. Nice to meet you . . .” 

“Trixie,” she responds, shaking Baz’s offered hand and turning back to me. “Gareth’s been asking for you since he got here, going from table to table demanding where you are and asking if anyone has seen you and if they can tell you he’s looking for you and—” she breaks off, casting a worried glance over my shoulder. “Oh fuck. Speak of the devil. You’d better go sit down. Bellamy’s table only has 2 seats left. I’d recommend snagging them so he can't try to sit beside you.” 

Trixie shoves me in the direction of a table in the corner of the roomand I pull Baz after me.

“She’s the one who planned the party? Trixie?” Baz asks, as we take the last two seats at the table Trixie had pointed out to us.

I nod. “Yeah, that’s her.”

“She did a decent job, for an office party.” Baz turns in his seat, surveying the decorations. I let my gaze follow his—I have to admit, Trixie did do pretty well. The decorations are festive but not garish, and from what I can see, most of the budget went into the food.

“Oh!” I hear someone gasp. I look up to see Elspeth leaning across the table. “Look! Mini truffles!” The centerpiece of the table we’re seated at is a Christmas tree made out of truffles. Elspeth snags one and pops it in her mouth. “Mmmm, that’s amazing! Here, try one!” She grabs another and holds it out to her boyfriend, who bites into it with an obscene moan.

“Oh, god!” he says. “Is that—I think that’s red wine in there?” 

“Ugh, get a room,” Baz whispers in my ear, and I can’t help but laugh. I reach out to grab a truffle of my own, but then I see Gareth making his way over to our table.

“I’m gonna get us some drinks,” I tell Baz. “Be right back.” I stand and head in the opposite direction from Gareth, making a beeline for the buffet table and the bar.

I make it over to the bar without incident, but Gareth corners me as I'm bringing our drinks to the table. 

“Hey Simon!” 

“Uh, hey Gareth.” I try to step around him, but he steps the same direction, blocking my movement.

“Guess what I heard?” he breathes, and I get a whiff of the alcohol on his breath. Trixie was right—he’s completely pissed. Gareth is bad enough when he’s sober. Drunk Gareth is another beast entirely. “I heard” —he pauses and leans in, and I take a step back— “I heard you’re not really engaged.”

I frown. “Uh, not yet? But Baz has a ring, and he’s—”

Gareth reaches out to put his hand over my mouth, but I duck, so he ends up sort of swatting at my forehead. “No, no, no,” he slurs. “You’re not going to marry him.”

“The fuck are you talking about, mate?”

He grins at me, his eyes a bit out of focus. “I heard Trixie telling Keris that you had a fake date to the party. Not cool mate, not cool.”

I glare at him. “Okay, first of all, you can’t believe everything you hear. Second, what the fuck does it matter? I’m not interested in you either way.”

"Where’s your ‘boyfriend’, anyway?" He doesn't bother to make the air quotes with his fingers, but I can _hear_ them in his voice. 

"Seriously, mate. I'm not interested. Fuck off, and go enjoy the party, yeah?"

Gareth shrugs, then tucks his fingers in his pockets and shifts his hips forward. His belt buckle glints, and I swear it's winking at me. I avert my eyes before Gareth can accuse me of staring at his crotch. That’s the absolute last thing I need. “I wanna enjoy the party with you,” he says, wistfully. “Since you came alone after all . . .”

"Right, well, I didn’t come alone, I came with a date, and he’s actually waiting for me, so I think I'll just—"

"Mistletoe!" Gareth shouts.

"What?"

He points at something above us. (With two hands and three fingers.) "Mistletoe!" The glee in his eyes is wildly unnerving.

In the twenty minutes since Baz and I arrived, the room has filled up, and partygoers are now pressing into me from all sides, blocking my escape. My eyes dart around the room, seeking an exit, and I back away as far as I can. "No fucking way, mate."

An opening appears between two dancing couples, and I slip through the gap, but Gareth follows me like a foul odor I can't shake. I’m beginning to think I’ll have to bathe in tomato juice to get rid of him.

"Wait! Where's your Christmas spirit?" he calls after me. “You’re single, I’m single” —he hiccups— “I just wanna have some fun, don’t you?” 

My getaway is slowed by a group of our coworkers dancing, limbs flying into the space around them. I dodge an elbow and duck under a flailing arm on my way past, only to find that Gareth has somehow planted himself directly in my path again by the time I emerge from the crowd. I catch Baz's eye over his shoulder—he’s still sitting at the table where I left him, watching my plight with amusement. _Wanker_. I widen my eyes at him and send him a silent plea for help.

"My Christmas spirit does not extend to kissing you. That’s not my idea of fun."

"Oh, come on. It’s completely innocent, I swear. I’d only kiss you on the cheek, anyway. Your ‘boyfriend’ won't mind." Again with the audible air quotes. How does he _do_ that?

"Actually, he does mind," a cool voice interjects. Baz appears like some sort of dark guardian angel and sidles up to me, wrapping a possessive arm around my waist and reaching for one of the glasses of champagne I’m holding. "Is that my drink? Thank you, love." He tilts his head back and downs the whole drink in one go. He’s got the right idea—I’m going to need a lot more alcohol in my system if I want to get through tonight with my sanity intact. I follow Baz’s lead and finish off my drink in three swallows.

Gareth straightens up, standing as tall as he can, though he still has to tilt his head back in order to meet Baz’s eyes. "It's just an innocent kiss under the mistletoe. Nothing untoward. No need to get all jealous."

Baz frowns and levels one of his most terrifying glares at Gareth, who physically wilts and takes half a step back. I suppress a snicker. I step closer to Baz and press my lips to the shell of his ear, and whisper loud enough that Gareth can hear, "I'd much rather _you_ snog me under the mistletoe, darling." I pinch his bum for good measure. To his credit, he doesn't flinch at the contact—he just smirks at Gareth before tightening his grip around my waist, dipping me back, and kissing the breath out of me. Our champagne glasses fall to the ground with a clatter. (Good thing they were empty.) (And plastic—thank goodness for Trixie’s frugality.)

I wrap both arms around Baz's neck and return the kiss as he pulls me back upright. I feel a little dizzy, though whether that’s from the alcohol or from the unexpected dip or from the kiss, I couldn’t say.

"You've been eating the truffles without me," I accuse, as I pull away. "I can taste the chocolate!"

Baz grins, cheeks dusted pink and a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "Don't worry, there are plenty to go around."

"Still! It’s the principle of the thing!" 

He just brushes his thumb along my jaw and mutters, "Don't be cross, love. I only had one, just enough to see if they were as good as Elspeth’s boyfriend made them sound. And they are. You’ll like them. Come on, let's replace those drinks."

Gareth mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “posh tosser with a small-ass belt” and stomps off to the corner where Keris and Rhys are chatting with a couple of blokes I don’t recognize.

I can feel everyone’s eyes on us as we pick up the glasses we dropped. We ignore the spectators, fetching new drinks and heading back to our table. Elspeth and her boyfriend are still there, as is Karen Bellamy from accounting and her husband, and a couple of blokes I think work in marketing.

I try desperately not to panic about the fact that Baz just fucking kissed me . . . or the fact that I'm suddenly aware that this is not the first time I've thought about kissing Baz.

“Hey Simon,” Elspeth says. “We were having a lovely chat with your fiancé just now. Can’t believe you never mentioned him before today.”

“Hey Elspeth, good to see you. And, uh, Baz is my boyfriend, not my fiancé.”

“Not _yet_ ,” Baz adds with a smirk.

Elspeth positively beams at him. “Oh, how exciting! Simon, you must tell me as soon as you’re officially engaged. I want to hear _all_ the details. Trixie told me you’ve already picked out rings.” 

“Er, yeah,” I mutter. “Yep, we did.”

“Oh! Where are my manners?” Elspeth turns and gestures between her boyfriend and us. “Simon, this is David. I’m not sure if you’ve met before.”

“Pleasure to meet you, David,” I say.

“Likewise,” David says, then holds out his hand for me to shake. I have to stand up and lean across the table to reach it. 

David and Elspeth turn to talk to the Bellamys, and I hold out my other hand to Baz, palm up. “Alright, you. Hand over the truffles.” The centerpiece is gone, and for his sake, he’d better not have been lying about there still being plenty to go around. “You said you’d left me some.”

“Of course, love.” Baz grins and lifts the corner of his napkin to reveal ten truffles he’d stashed there. He pushes them over to me. “All yours.” 

“Oh, you’re brilliant!” I pop one in my mouth, and it’s fucking heavenly. I eat another. “I could kiss you right now.” I flush. "Er, again, that is."

“Is that so?” He leans a little closer. “You liked it, then?”

“Christ, Baz. It was fucking perfect.”

The corners of his mouth tighten, not quite a frown, but not a smile either. “I wasn’t talking about the truffle.”

“Neither was I.”

“Hmmm.” Baz reaches out and brushes a lock of hair off my forehead, then hooks his fingers behind my neck and pulls me in for another kiss. 

This one feels much different than the last one. It’s softer, slower, more hesitant. When he pulls away, I can’t help but chase his lips, leaning towards him as he leans back. I hear him laugh gently, and I open my eyes to find him looking back at me with a devastatingly tender expression on his face. His smile is full of genuine affection as he reaches out to smooth the lapels of my jacket.

“If I’d known all I had to do to get you to kiss me was give you chocolate truffles, I’d’ve done it ages ago.”

I want to ask if he means that, or if he’s just saying it for show, but the words get stuck in my throat. It didn’t seem like it was just for show. It certainly didn’t _feel_ like it was just for show. I eat another truffle and sneak a glance at him. He’s resting his elbow on the table, chin in his hand, still staring at me with that soft smile. I feel a rush of pleasure that has absolutely nothing to do with the burst of chocolate ganache in my mouth.

“So, Baz, what do you do?” Elspeth asks from his other side, and he drops his arm and turns to her. 

“I work in finance,” he says. “At my father’s company.”

“Oh? Which company is that?”

I tune out as Baz describes his job, and focus on watching him instead—his facial expressions, his indifferent politeness as he addresses Elspeth and David, his hand gestures, the way he presses his lips together before answering a question, like he’s trying to hold the words in until they’re all perfectly in order. Every last one of his little tics and quirks is familiar to me—all those little parts and pieces that make up _Baz_ —and I love all of them. I think I might be a little in love with him. I’ve been heading that way for a while now—for years, if I’m honest—and as of a few minutes ago, I’m starting to think perhaps it’s not so one-sided after all.

As he talks, I let myself think about what we’d talked about last week, about how the only reason our relationship would be considered platonic is that we’ve decided it is. That we don’t call it romantic or do anything physically intimate with each other. And then I think about how easy it’s been tonight, kissing Baz, and how much I’d like to do it again. (And again.) (And again.) (Possibly forever.)

Would it really be so terrible if everything changed between us? Would introducing kissing—or sex—even change much between us at all? Suddenly, I can’t think of a single good reason _not_ to kiss Baz.

Kissing Baz, touching him . . . it doesn’t feel scary, or strange, or even _new_. It feels comfortable. Easy. Inevitable.

At least, it does to me.

I wonder if he feels the same. 

I suppose there’s only one way to find out.

As he talks to Elspeth and David, I take another sip of champagne for courage, then drop my hand under the table and place it on Baz’s knee. I feel him stiffen underneath my hand, but then he relaxes, leaning back into his seat, and keeps talking.

I take a deep breath and slide my hand up, just one inch. Baz freezes again, but only momentarily, before he’s relaxed. I see the corner of his mouth turn up in a small smile.

Another deep breath. Another inch.

And Baz lets his knees fall apart, his thighs spreading open in what can only be interpreted as an invitation. A glance at his face—and the rising blush on his cheeks—confirms my suspicions. Baz is into this . . . and he wants me to keep touching him. I soon find myself with one of the most inappropriately timed erections of my life.

I scoot my chair forward, so that my body and the drape of the tablecloth completely block any view of Baz’s lap, and then I slide my hand up to the crease at the top of his thigh. I let my pinky finger graze the fabric over his crotch—he’s hard, too.

I pause and lift my hand off of him entirely, hovering an inch or two in the air above his lap, in case he’s changed his mind, but Baz’s hand comes down on top of mine and presses my hand back down. 

I stop thinking, and start focusing on not letting my intense arousal show on my face as I proceed to palm and squeeze and rub Baz through his trousers—hesitantly at first, then more confidently as he responds. I can’t help but smirk at the way his ears and cheeks have turned bright red, even as I admire his ability to hold a conversation about finance as I’m touching him.

“Are you alright, Simon?” I tear my eyes away from Baz’s mouth—which I realize I’ve been staring at for a while—to see Karen Bellamy looking at me with concern. “Are you feeling ill? You look a bit flushed.”

“Er, yes,” I say. “I’m fine.” Baz’s hips move under my palm, and I choke. “Just, uh, had a bit too much to drink.”

I hear Baz snicker beside me, and I give him a good squeeze. His snicker turns into a squeak, and I flash him a smug smile.

He leans over, then, pressing his lips to my ear. “Want to dance?” he murmurs.

“What? Now?”

“Yes, now. Come on.”

“Er, just a sec.” I untuck my shirt, letting the tails fall over my front to hide the raging hard-on I’m sporting. I glance over to see Baz has done the same. “Yeah, alright. Let’s dance.”


	3. Chapter 3

Dancing with Baz is almost as good as kissing him.

With a cursory excuse to the others at our table, Baz dragged me out of my seat, onto the dance floor, and immediately proceeded to press his body to mine. We danced for a while, to slow songs and fast songs and back to slow songs again. Baz’s hands never left my body, nor mine his.

Now, as a gentle orchestral piece plays over the speakers, I’ve got my face buried in Baz’s neck and his arms around my waist. He smells fucking amazing, like clean sweat, my laundry detergent (we use the same brand), and that fancy bergamot soap he likes. He holds me close, and I haven’t a care in the world. 

That only lasts a moment, though.

Because then, my body decides to register the fact that my front is currently pressed up against Baz’s front. And that my crotch is flush with Baz’s crotch. And my body likes the idea of that. (Very much so.) 

For the second time in the space of an hour, I find myself getting an erection while surrounded by my coworkers. I mean, I’m not upset about the fact that it’s happening. From the way Baz’s fingers tighten on my waist, I’d venture to say he’s not upset about it either. But I do wish that we weren’t in the middle of a work function right now.

The music picks up and the handful of slow-dancing couples around us break apart, but I stay plastered to Baz, shoulder to knee. I have no intention of letting go. A glance up at Baz's eyes (and the hard length I feel pressing against my own hip) tells me Baz is thinking the same.

We hold each other's gaze for a minute, swaying slowly, and then Baz leans in and whispers, lips moving against my cheek, "Let’s get out of here."

“What? Already?”

Baz frowns. "Oh. I thought . . . Never mind."

“Are you not having fun?” My brain catches up with his words a moment too late. “ _Oh._ ” 

Baz raises an eyebrow.

“I, uh. Yes,” I say. “I mean, I’d like to go home. With you, I mean.” And I do. Not that the dancing isn’t fun—I’m having a blast, to be honest—but I’m also hard as a rock and I want Baz so badly I think I might die.

"Right, then." Breaking into a wide grin, Baz takes me by the wrist and pulls me across the dance floor, and we slip out into the corridor. 

I shove him up against the wall before the door has even closed behind us, giving him a desperate, toothy sort of kiss. He growls a bit when I nip at his lower lip, and that sound almost makes me lose my mind. I’ve heard that particular growl before, but always muffled, through the wall between our bedrooms, intended for someone else. This time, the noises he makes are all for me, and that thought sends a bolt of heat straight through me.

“Fucking hell, you don’t know what you do to me,” he groans, sucking my earlobe into his mouth.

“God, Baz, there are so _many_ things I want to do to you.”

"We should go," Baz hisses. "Now.” His hand slips down between us and he squeezes me for emphasis. “Or I’m going to have you right here in the hallway.”

“Okay,” I say, because all I can think is _Baz_ and _Yes_ and _Now_.

“Fuck, Snow, don’t tempt me.” And he hooks his fingers in my waistband and covers my mouth with his again.

I pull back reluctantly. “I wouldn’t be opposed.”

Baz chases my lips with another kiss. “I won’t lie, that’s incredibly hot.” He plants a kiss under my ear. “Though it might not be the smartest career move for you.” I shiver as he licks a stripe up my throat. “Your boss is here, isn’t she?”

As hot as I find the idea of having sex with Baz right here and now, I don’t actually want to get fired from my job for indecent conduct at the company holiday party. 

“Some other time, then,” I say. “But there’s got to be somewhere closer than home we can go. Now, I mean.”

“I think I saw a janitor’s closet on the way in,” Baz says.

I can’t help it. I laugh. “Romantic, that.”

Baz pretends to look offended, but the effect is somewhat dampened by his flushed cheeks and his messy hair (I did that) and his kiss-swollen lips (I did that too). 

“You can have all the romance you want next time.” Something like joy and hope blooms in my chest at the thought that there might be a next time . . . That this might be something more than a mere detour in the course of our shared lives.

* * *

The closet isn't where Baz thought he’d seen it, and the loo is occupied, so we spend a good ten minutes roaming the halls looking for a secluded place. On the way, we kiss each other up against the walls, and do a fair bit more touching in the process. By the time we _do_ find a place to go (a storage room, by the looks of it), I've almost come in my pants at least two separate times. Like a bloody _teenager_. I’ve also managed to leave at least three love bites on Baz’s perfect skin.

I wish I could say we had some kind of mind-blowing sex in that dark storage room—that in spite of the setting, it was still romantic. Shag of my life, and all that. But honestly? We barely get our shirts unbuttoned, our flies open, and our hands around each other before we're coming on each other's stomachs, Baz a few seconds after me. It might have been embarrassing how little time it took, but I’m too damn happy to care. 

It was bloody perfect. 

Baz uses his fancy pocket square to wipe us off, then stuffs it in _my_ trouser pocket. (Wanker.)

"Fuck, Baz," I pant, my head on his shoulder and his arms draped loosely behind my neck. "I haven't wanted it that bad, in . . . well . . . maybe ever, honestly."

Baz is as out of breath as I am. "I—Yes. Me neither."

“That was brilliant.”

“In spite of the location, I’d have to agree.”

I lift my head to give him what is our umpteenth kiss of the night (and certainly not the last, if I have my way about it). 

"Baz."

"Simon." Fuck, I love it when he says my name like that.

"I want to do this again."

"Now?"

"Er, not _right_ now. It's a bit dusty in here. No, I want to do it properly, like in a bed."

"Okay. That sounds good."

"Like, later tonight."

"I don't have any other plans."

Baz rests his head back against the wall. I can only sort of see the outline of him in the dim light coming through the crack under the door, but when I run my thumb over his forehead, it's free of creases. My fingers seek out the dimple in his right cheek and find it. He's smiling, and I've seen that smile often enough that I don't need light to know exactly what he looks like right now. He’s happy.

"Alright darling,” I say. “Let's go back in there for a bit, have another round of drinks, make sure Gareth gets a good look at my mussed hair and your wrinkled shirt, yeah? Then we can bail, go to my place. Or yours. Almost the same thing, really."

"That sounds absolutely perfect."

We fix our clothes as best we can in the dark, and Baz pulls open the door. And that’s when we hear him.

“Simon? Simon? Where’d you go? I know you’re out here. Simon?”

“ _Fuck!_ ” I reach around Baz and shove the door closed.

“Gareth?” Baz asks.

“Gareth.” I confirm, an involuntary shudder racking my body.

“Want to hide out in here a while longer?” Baz reaches for me, his hands roaming over my chest and arms before he feels out my waist and pulls me to him. He’s half hard again already.

I turn my head and kiss his neck. “No,” I sigh. “Trixie’s right. I need to stop being a coward and put a stop to this. Once and for all.”

Straightening up, I pull the door open and step out into the corridor, Baz just behind me, and I almost walk straight into Gareth.

“Oh, hiya Simon! I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

“Yeah, well, I was—”

“Listen, I need to tell you something.” Gareth steps closer, his eyes wide, and his hand cupped around his mouth like he’s telling me something top secret, although he’s hardly whispering. He's still drunk, if not more so than before. “I’m sorry, Simon, but I can’t do this anymore.”

I frown. “What?”

Gareth shakes his head, patting me on the shoulder. “I’m sorry. I thought we were meant to be, but I’ve come to realize . . . you never appreciated” —he stops and lets out a half-sob— “you never appreciated my belt buckles. That’s a big deal, you know. A big deal . . . A big deal-breaker.”

I turn to a very bemused Baz, who is watching the exchange with one of his eyebrows raised almost to his hairline.

“Your . . . belt buckles?” I ask weakly.

“Yes! I always wore my best ones just for you, and you never noticed! Not even when I wore the one with the jewels in it.” He sobs again. “But you know who does? You know who appreciates my belt buckles, Simon?”

I’m almost afraid to ask. “Who?”

“ _Rhys_.” At our coworker’s name, Gareth’s face lights up. “Rhys notices. He says— He says I have style. _He_ has taste. And I’m going out with him. I’m sorry, Simon. It was never going to work between us. I hope you find a real boyfriend someday.”

“I . . . er . . . thanks, Gareth . . .”

“See you Monday!”

I blink and shake my head to clear it, and Gareth disappears around the corner, humming something to himself.

“That was . . . odd,” Baz muses.

“Odd, yeah, but who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth? I’m gonna bring Rhys a pastry on Monday."

"A whole box of pastries!" Baz supplies.

"Yes, damn it! I'll give the man a whole fucking cake!” 

“Bless him and his weird belt buckle kink.” 

“I hope they’re happy together. I hope they stay together for fucking ever.”

Baz takes my hand and pulls me toward the door. “For your sake, I do too.”

* * *

We stick around at the party just long enough to make use of those extra drink tickets Trixie gave us, and then head to Baz’s. That nervous energy from earlier today starts to creep back in on the ride back, though it diminishes slightly when Baz takes my hand and leans over to kiss me in the back of the cab. 

The thing is, now that I’m letting myself think about it, I’m realizing I’ve loved Baz for a long time.

I think about all those times I stayed over at his place, and slept in his bed, and I remember long-suppressed feelings of disappointment when he’d wake up and shift away from whatever position we’d ended up in overnight.

I think about all those times I heard him shagging those blokes through the wall behind my bed, and that angry, sick feeling I’d get—I’d thought it was annoyance, but I’m now pretty sure it was jealousy.

I think about every date I’ve been on in the past two years, and how they all somehow seemed _wrong_ , like something was missing, and I remember being out at restaurants or at clubs or on walks and wishing Baz had been there with me instead.

I’m not sure when it was, exactly, that the sight of Baz running his hand through his hair started to make my throat tighten, or when the sound of Baz’s laugh started to make something in my chest swell, or when the smell of him started to make my heart stutter, but I know it’s nothing new. I just hadn’t ever thought that we could be something more.

And now that all of those thoughts are at the forefront of my mind, well . . . I’m fucking terrified.

I’m also realizing that I wasn’t very clear with my intentions back there in the storage closet. What if Baz thinks I’m just looking for someone to spend the night with? What if he thinks this is one of those ‘friends-with-benefits’ type things?

Oh, god. We're going to have to _talk_ about it, aren't we?

I think I’m going to be sick. And not entirely because of the quantity of alcohol I had before getting into this cab.

I sneak a glance at Baz, who sees me looking and gives me a soft smile. He squeezes my hand, which he’s still holding, and it reassures me a little. It’s Baz. It’s just Baz. If he doesn’t want what I want, he’ll let me down easy, and everything can go back to normal. (More or less, minus all the pining I’ll no doubt end up doing.)

By the time we reach his flat, I’m so nervous my hands are shaking. And of course Baz notices.

“Are you alright?” he asks, stopping just inside the doorway to take both my hands in one of his and brush a lock of hair out of my face with the other. His face is tense with worry.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just . . .” I’ve no idea how to finish that sentence. “Just a bit nervous, I suppose. This is new.”

Baz relaxes, and drops his hands. “It is, isn’t it,” he muses. “We don’t have to do anything more tonight if you’re not sure. We can just hang out, have a nightcap, watch a film, like usual.”

I shrug and nod. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Let’s do that.”

But once we’re seated on the sofa, drinks in hand, jackets off, ties untied, and shirts unbuttoned far enough for me to glimpse the neat tangle of dark hair on Baz’s chest . . . I decide I’m done waiting. 

_Fuck it_ , I think to myself. I want this. I know I want this.

And Baz . . .

I set my drink on the coffee table and turn to face him, scooting close. He looks up at me, grey eyes meeting mine as I take his glass from his fingers and set it aside.

“Baz,” I whisper against his cheek. “I’m sure now. I’m sure. I want this. I want _you_.”

The slide of his lips against mine snaps any last threads of restraint I have, and I lean into him, pressing my tongue between his teeth and feeling him respond in kind. He pulls me into his lap, closer and closer still, until I’m straddling him, knees on either side of his hips. I bury my hands in his luscious hair, revelling in the way it feels as it slips between my fingers, and when he pulls away to kiss down the side of my neck, I bury my face in his hair, too.

Things move relatively quickly after that. We don’t even make it to the bed after all. Baz is faster than me, getting my clothes off and sinking to his knees in front of me to take me in his mouth, but it's not long before I've got him undressed. And then, finally, he's on top of me, _inside_ me, making me feel complete in a way no one ever has before.

After, when he collapses over me, our chests sliding together in a slick mess of sweat and come, he mumbles something into the skin of my neck that I can't quite make out.

"Hmm? What was that?"

He lifts his head, hesitates, then says, "I just . . . I needed to tell you that I . . ." he pauses again, something uncertain in his eyes.

I run a soothing hand through his hair. "Tell me. What is it?"

A soft sigh falls from his lips. "I love you."

“You love me?” My voice comes out much quieter, much more timid than I meant it to, but Baz just raises his head and kisses my cheek.

“I’ve loved you for so long. It’s okay if you don’t feel the same. I just—I needed you to know. I needed you to know what this—what it meant for me.”

“No,” I say. “I don’t. I mean, I don’t _not_ feel the same. I mean, fuck! I’m trying to say I _do_ feel the same. Baz,” I grab his head with two hands and hold him back so I can see his face. “Baz, I’m fucking in love with you, you beautiful bastard. I’m—”

He cuts me off with a deep kiss, and if it weren’t for the fact that I’m starting to feel a bit sticky and uncomfortable, I’d never let him go.

“Stay with me tonight?” he asks.

“Yes. Join me in the shower first?”

“Of course.”

He stands and walks down the hall, and I watch him go, that warmth and joy bursting in my chest again at the sight of him—naked, sweaty, utterly debauched . . . and _mine._

* * *

  
  


**Epilogue** ****

_Penny_

I’m worried about Simon. He didn’t come back to our flat last night. It’s not the first time he’s stayed out all night or slept over at Basil’s flat, especially after they’ve been drinking together, but he always texts me to let me know not to worry.

I give him until eleven in the morning, but when he still hasn’t shown (or picked up the phone), I make my way next door to Basil’s. No one answers my knock, so I go back for the spare key Simon keeps in his room, and I let myself in.

_Oh my god._

Nothing could have prepared me for the sight of Basilton Pitch’s bare arse in the middle of his kitchen. I mean, it’s his kitchen—he can wear (or not wear) whatever he likes while he’s in it. But my eyes did not need to be exposed to that. And he’s not alone—he’s got Simon pressed up against the counter, his tongue in Simon’s mouth, and his hands—never mind. I can’t see his hands, and I don’t want to think about where they are. At least Simon has boxers on, or I’d get even more of an eyeful of my roommate than I ever wanted to see. 

I cough and they spring apart, looking sheepish. Basil at least has the presence of mind to grab a dishcloth and hold it over his crotch before he turns to face me.

“Good morning,” I say. “Good to see you’re both alive.”

Simon flushes. “Oh, sorry, Pen. I never did text you last night, did I?”

“Nope.” I raise my eyebrows at them. “Clearly you were otherwise occupied.”

Basil smirks at that.

“Don’t look so smug, Basil. I’m not the one currently burning my eggs.”

Simon gasps. “What? Fuck! Baz, the eggs!” He reaches to shut off the heat on the stove, but the eggs are already smoking. Baz switches on the fan with the hand not currently holding his makeshift loincloth, and Simon stabs pathetically at the ruined mess in the pan. “Fuck.”

“Glad to see you two finally figured it out,” I tell them, before heading back to my flat to wash my eyes out with caustic soap. I’ll give Simon a piece of my mind about worrying me later. For now, I’ll leave him to enjoy his new boyfriend’s naked arse.

Oh, and Agatha totally owes me five pounds.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi to me on Tumblr!  
> [Gampyre on Tumblr](https://gampyre.tumblr.com/)


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